Chapter Text
…twenty-five minutes later…
They snuggle together on the bench at the edge of the rink, unwilling to part for even a fraction of a second. Yuuri’s head rests against Victor’s shoulder. The announcers, Victor is sure, must be having a field day talking about Yuuri’s exhibition skate. He can’t hear what they’re saying, and he really doesn’t care.
It’s not as if he and Yuuri have tried to hide their relationship; it’s not as if they want to. There will be questions to answer, of course, but they’ll answer them together. With their rings on.
The questions will start as soon as…
…Well, apparently, they’llc start here, with Yurio coming up to their bench. He’s dressed in the black leather and bright leopard print of his exhibition skate. His hands make angry fists in front of him, and he glares at the two of them cuddling at the edge of the rink as if they’ve done something horribly wrong.
Victor wonders what he’ll say. So you’re not retiring, katsudon? Prepare to be beaten again and again. Maybe. Or: Moving to St. Petersburg? I’ll kill you both. Something pleasant like that would be just his style. Yurio bites his lip, and for a moment the tension swells.
Yuuri speaks first. “Hi, Yurio. I really liked your exhibition performance. Amazing choreography. You did it yourself, right?”
“Shut up, pig.” Yurio’s nose wrinkles. His eyes narrow. “If you hurt him,” he says on a growl, “I will end you. Do you understand?”
Victor glances at Yuuri. Yuuri tilts his head toward Victor.
“Understood,” Victor says. “Loud and clear.”
But Yuuri speaks at the same time. “Of course,” he replies.
There’s a beat of silence. Yuuri bites his lip and steals a glance at Victor at the same time that Victor tilts his head toward him.
“Um, Yurio,” Yuuri finally says. “Were you talking to me or Victor?”
“Yes!” Yurio practically shouts this word in frustration. He turns and stomps away in his skate guards before either of them have a chance to ask for clarification.
“Huh,” Yuuri says.
This seems like the only possible response. Victor shakes his head. “Huh.”
#
…twenty-five days later…
Victor doesn’t often think about the fact that Yakov has an office. It’s always been there, a storage facility for old papers and trophies, situated just past the locker room at the St. Petersburg rink. Yakov stores his coat here in the winter. Over the years, the only time Victor has ever been in this room with Yakov has been when he’d really, really screwed up. Like the time he crashed the zamboni at three in the morning.
Being in Yakov’s office gives him a faint feeling that he’s done something wrong. He’s pretty sure there’s something he did now, too. Probably something to do with his faint exhaustion at coaching and skating simultaneously, if he had to guess.
“Victor,” Yakov growls in front of him. “You know what this is about. It’s about what happened at Yekaterinburg.”
“Yekaterinburg?” Victor frowns. “You’re referring to the gold medal I took at Russian Nationals with three weeks of preparation?”
It had been touch and go. He and Yuuri had gone straight there from Barcelona—Yuuri, to get as much coaching in as possible before Japanese Nationals, Victor to adjust to the time zone and the rink, to maximize his familiarity with it before his own national championships.
They’d both gotten gold; what was the problem?
No, I won’t stop coaching Yuuri, he thinks. He’s going to hold his ground on this one.
“Not the gold medal, although that was sheer luck,” Yakov says. “I’m talking about—”
“Oh. My exhibition skate.” Victor shakes his head, hoping to distract his coach. “It was a bit of a squeeze getting Yuuri back in time to skate it with me, but you know I didn’t have time to choreograph a third program. And honestly, how was I supposed to guess that someone would start a petition to the ISU to allow same sex pairs? I had nothing to do with that.”
Well, technically, he’d signed the petition. And retweeted the link nineteen times. Plus, there was that op-ed on the subject that he and Yuuri had cowritten for an American newspaper, but that wasn’t going live until tomorrow, and Yakov probably didn’t know about that. Yet.
“I had almost nothing to do with that,” Victor amends. Internally, he urges Yakov on. Obvious bait is obvious…
“It’s not that,” Yakov growls.
Damn. His misdirection has failed. This is definitely about the coaching/skating thing.
Yakov sits behind his desk, his eyes narrowing. His gaze fixes on Victor.
“Well,” Yakov says. “Do I have to spell it out?”
Victor takes a long, slow inhale. You see, Yakov… I can’t skate without Yuuri. But even though he knows Yakov cares about him, he’s afraid to say the words. Afraid that even now, this will break something between them.
He takes too long.
Yakov rolls his eyes. “You’re trying to come up with a sufficiently flowery apology for what happened at the rink after hours. Don’t bother. There’s nothing you can say!”
Victor blinks. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all. “Uh. What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Yakov glares at him. “I know what you get up to when you and Yuuri get your special, authorized after-hours practice! You’re not fooling anyone! Why can’t you wait to go back to your hotel room like an ordinary person? Do you have so little self-control?”
Victor feels his ears turn red. This conversation has officially become three thousand percent more awkward than he could possibly have imagined, and his imagination is pretty good.
“‘We call everything on the ice love,’” Yakov quotes. “And to think, I wasted actual time wondering if that had some deeper meaning! Why did I let myself get played like that! You could have just told me you were talking about blowjobs.”
Victor starts coughing. Well. Shit.
“Just because you think the rink is empty does not mean the rink is empty!” Yakov bellows. “Think of the poor coach who might show up to offer advice late at night.”
Oh, dear. Poor Yakov.
“For the record…” Victor clears his throat. “Maybe don’t do that any more? Possibly not ever again?”
Yakov sighs.
“Also, love and blowjobs are definitely not the same thing. And also, it…mostly wasn’t blowjobs in Yekaterinburg?”
“Did I ask for a slow motion replay with commentary?” Yakov rolls his eyes. “It all comes down to the same thing! You’re corrupting that poor boy.”
That poor boy. Ha. Victor has an intense, almost visceral flashback to standing on the ice at nine in the evening. It had been their last night with each other—as coach and student, as lover and beloved—before Yuuri had to fly back to Japan. His flight, a red-eye, had been leaving in four hours.
Victor hated to let him go, hated even more that he wouldn’t be with him.
But Yuuri had skated up to him after one final performance of Eros, sweaty and sultry.
“How was that?” he asked.
“Beautiful.”
Yuuri had put a finger on Victor’s hip. “How beautiful?” He had drawn a curving arc from thigh to belly, bringing Victor to attention.
Yes, Yekaterinburg had entirely been Yuuri’s fault, from that first come-on, to the point where Yuuri had grabbed a fistful of Victor’s Olympic jacket, hauling him in for a kiss. In the end, Victor had found Yuuri’s thighs around his hips, pulling him in. It had been Yuuri urging Victor to fuck him harder, fuck him now…
What was Victor to do? Not have sex with his fiancé just because they happened to be in a semi-public place? The venue staff had already left. Probably. And Victor wasn’t a monster.
“Right,” Victor says to Yakov. His memory of that evening is very, very fond. “I’m corrupting him.”
Yakov doesn’t sense his sarcasm. “I honestly have no idea how you convinced that sweet, innocent boy to marry you.”
Victor isn’t entirely sure either, but he hopes that complying with his fiancé’s insatiable demands will help hasten the wedding. But he’s not going to tell Yakov this. If Yakov wants to think that Yuuri is sweet and innocent—or that Yuuri is the source of the colorful bentos that have started appearing at lunchtime—that’s Yakov’s business. Victor doesn’t need to explain that he’s been facetiming Hiroko for cooking help.
“So?” Yakov demands on a growl. “Go ahead. I know the words are empty, but say them anyway. You’re sorry and you’ll never do it again.”
“I’m not sorry,” Victor says with a smile. “This is the new normal. Sorry, Yakov. Yuuri comes first.”
Yakov sighs and looks up. “And to think,” he mutters. “I actually wanted you to come back to skating. At least Yuuri did get gold at Japanese nationals. Maybe a different approach…” The last remark seems to be more for himself. Yakov bites his lip, then nods and glares at Victor again. “That’s exactly it. Yuuri comes first. Victor, you have to be careful. You can’t interfere with his training, not with your shenanigans. It’s for his own good.”
Victor gives Yakov his best who, me? look. “But Yakov, I’m sure you’ll understand how necessary this is for Yuuri’s training. Cross-training is excellent practice. And I know Yuuri told you about his mental health issues. Endorphins are clinically proven to help manage anxiety. What kind of coach would I be if I didn’t…ah, assist my student in endorphin production?”
Yakov gives Victor a look of excessive displeasure. “I can tell you exactly what kind of coach you’d be. You would be a professional one. But you wouldn’t know anything about that. Are you even charging him a halfway normal rate?”
Victor cackles. “Oh, sure. I’m charging him double what I charged for the Grand Prix.” Two times zero, yep.
Yakov drums his fingers on the desk. “And doing it properly? Sending out invoices, having him sign contracts with appropriate liability releases?”
“Oh.” Victor stares at his coach. “You’re awfully serious about this. Why would I do that? Yuuri’s family.”
Yakov just shakes his head. “Victor, I charge you. We have a contract.”
“Yakov.” Victor leans in. “Yuuri’s sister would kill me. You haven’t met her yet. She’s… I don’t want to be on her bad side, okay?”
Yakov just shakes his head. “I don’t know why I even bother to talk to you. It’s not like anything I say ever gets through.”
Victor reaches over and pats Yakov’s hand. “I don’t know why you bother, either.”
#
…twenty-five months later…
Yakov’s office has only gathered dust from the last time Victor was called on the carpet. Yakov gestures him to a chair; Victor sits. There’s a dull throb in his hip from where he fell in practice that day, and an even duller twinge in his ankle that he’s pretending isn’t there. He’ll think about it after World’s.
Not now, though. He asked to talk to Yakov this time around, and he intends to go through with it. Yakov looks at his old coach. Raises an eyebrow.
It turns out that Victor is very bad at starting conversations when he’s afraid of the outcome. He’s been fretting about this particular conversation for four months now. Longer, really, but it’s been urgent for at least that long.
Every night, Yuuri looks at him. “Did you tell him yet?”
Every night, Victor shakes his head.
“Well?” Yakov frowns at him. “What is it? What did you want to tell me?”
The urge to chicken out is strong. Victor swallows. “I’ve been thinking…”
Yakov’s eyes go to Victor’s. They narrow in suspicion. His lips press together. He folds his arms.
“Victor, Victor, Victor.” The volume increases on each iteration of his name. “First, I’m not sure what you call that thing you do with your brain, but thinking is a complete stretch!”
Victor sighs and tries to regroup. He can do this.
Last night in bed, Yuuri kissed Victor’s forehead, and slid an arm around him. “Tell him, Vitya,” Yuuri said for what was probably the two hundredth time. “Yakov loves you. It’s going to be okay. He probably already has some idea.”
“He loves you.” Victor shut his eyes. “You can do no wrong in his eyes. Maybe you should—”
“Victor, I love you, but I am not going to tell your coach that you’re retiring.”
“But—”
“Remember the time you worried yourself sick wondering how to tell me you spoke Japanese?” Yuuri’s hand rested on Victor’s side. “It’s okay, Vitya. It’s going to be okay. People love you.” His husband’s voice was soft and reassuring. “I love you. Yakov loves you. It’s going to be okay, because we love you and we want you to be happy. And also, not incidentally, we prefer that you not shred your Achilles’ tendon beyond all repair. Tell him.”
Victor exhaled. “Okay,” he’d promised. “Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Except now it’s tomorrow. Victor promised Yuuri. He can’t avoid it any longer.
Victor takes a deep breath. “Okay, Yakov. You see—”
“Ah.” Yakov holds up a finger. “Wait. Let me prepare first.”
Victor’s hand curls in frustration against his thigh. He’s never going to get through this conversation. “Prepare? Prepare for what?”
Yakov doesn’t yell at him. He stands and rummages around various medals and plaques that are gathering dust on a back shelf.
“Ah,” he mutters to himself. “There you are.” He picks up a pair of shot glasses, emblazoned with the logo of some long-ago competition, and gives them a casual rinse in the sink.
A dusty bottle of vodka gets retrieved from a cabinet that he unlocks; ceremoniously, Yakov pours two fingers of liquid into each glass.
“There.” Yakov pushes one at Victor.
This is not what he was expecting. Neither of them speak. They silently lift their glasses and down the liquid all in one go.
It’s crap vodka; Victor coughs as the liquor strips the lining from his throat the entire way down. It settles in an uneasy lump in his stomach. Yakov always drinks crap vodka. Last year, Victor tried to buy him a top-shelf bottle for his birthday, something with a hint of pepper and spice and excellent ratings in the best magazines.
Yakov accused Victor of trying to poison him.
His coach, it turns out, favors alcohol that could be mistaken for paint thinner.
Yakov pours himself another two fingers, and holds the bottle of toxic chemical waste up, offering Victor a second round.
“No, thanks.” Victor means the no part more than the thanks. “I need to be somewhat sober for this conversation.”
Yakov shrugs. “Why? You’re retiring after Worlds this year. Not much more to say, is there?”
“I…” Victor blinks. He didn’t expect Yakov to know. He certainly didn’t expect him to be so blase about it. “But… I thought you would…”
“Be mad?” Yakov shrugs again. “I’m utterly delighted, you idiot. I’m never going to have to bribe rink employees to look the other way about the fact that you and Yuuri are desecrating the ice again. No more subtle complaints from ISU officials about how your exhibition skates are giving people ideas about same-sex ice dancing. It’s going to be so glorious. Almost relaxing.”
“About that. Yuuri’s not retiring,” Victor says. “So…none of that is changing.”
“But Yuuri’s not my student.” Yakov gives him a shark-like smile. “Hallelujah. It’s not my problem any more! Now you get to bribe traumatized workers. Now you can talk to the ISU.”
“But—”
“Fine, you want me to argue?” Yakov sighs. “I can do that. You’re one of the most decorated skaters in the world. You’re no longer the only one who wins gold, but you medal enough that you could continue skating. Your achilles tendon is bothering you a little, but enough rest could bring it back long enough to go another season, if you wanted. Keep skating, Victor.” He says this without even an iota of enthusiasm. “Maybe I could say that more forcefully? Pretend I did.”
Victor’s mouth doesn’t quite drop open. He’s been dreading this conversation for weeks now. Yuuri had to psych him up to it. And here Yakov is apparently ready for it.
“But…”
Yakov gives Victor a thin smile. “I’m saving my yelling for when it’s needed.”
Victor swallows. That sense of unease returns. Here he is, in Yakov’s office. Years ago, Yakov offered to have Victor take over for him when he retired. And yet… It wasn’t just talk of retirement that had him dreading this conversation.
“Um… When I retire.” Victor drums his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “I guess… Everyone seems to think it would make sense for me to start coaching full-time? I’ve had requests already.”
“I suppose almost everyone does think that. ” Yakov folds his arms. “You’re one of the most decorated skaters in all history, and you’ve coached the only person in the world who is likely to challenge you for that title. You’ll have students lined up out the door, Vitya. You could name your price. Is that what this is about? You want to start taking over for me?”
“Right. Um.” This was the part of the conversation he had dreaded most. “Yakov. I love skating. I always want to be a part of it. There’s only one small problem.”
One corner of Yakov’s mouth twitches up. “Ah?”
Victor leans forward. “Yakov,” he whispers, “It turns out that I am utter crap as a coach.”
“Oh, thank God.” Yakov clasps his hands together. “He already knows; I don’t have to break it to him. The boy figured it out on his own.”
“I mean, you would think I would be a genius?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t,” Yakov mutters.
“I’m a fantastic skater, right? And then there’s Yuuri—he’s been so brilliant, absolutely wonderful, he’s utterly blossomed, and it’s amazing. But Yuuri’s accomplishments have more to do with the fact that he’s extraordinary as a skater, and I’m an excellent husband. It has absolutely nothing to do with actual coaching skill on my part. Skating was too easy for me. I don’t know how to do things properly. I just do them. It turns out, grabbing people’s asses and saying, ‘no, use more whoosh, and from here’ is really ineffective for everyone who didn’t spend eleven years studying my every interview.”
Yakov looks at Victor. “What are you going to do instead?”
“You never did come visit me in Japan,” Victor says, instead of answering. “I wish you had. Hasetsu—the town Yuuri is from—used to have several onsens.”
“What?”
“Hot springs,” Victor replies. “They’re the best for soaking sore muscles after training. I always thought that if I was going to run a skating school, I’d base it there.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to run a skating school.”
“Me? No. Not yet. Not by myself. But Yuuri and I are moving back to Hasetsu. I’m a terrible coach, but Yuuri? He’s…great.”
Yakov nods. “It’s true. He’s a lot better than you.”
“I’m going to be the choreographer,” Victor says, “and I’ll work with the costumers, and—”
Yakov sighs and shakes his head. “Vitya.”
“What? You don’t think I can do that?”
“Vitya,” Yakov says, “I am seventy-three years old. Do you think I got out the good vodka to hear you go on about choreography?”
“This is good vodka?”
Yakov downs another shot, then points a finger at Victor. “ Do you think I haven’t seen you and Yuuri weeping over your phones? I’m not an idiot! You have ultrasound pictures. Were you ever going to show them to me?”
Victor would have told Yakov—but “We’re pregnant!” would have led into the “I’m retiring” talk, and…
And Victor’s an idiot, and bad at telling people things.
“Oh.” Victor swallows. “Yes. Those. Well. Did I mention that…we’re about five months along?”
Yakov gives Victor a dirty look. “Vitya, if I didn’t love you so much, I would fire you as a student. Two weeks before World’s, I would do it. I’ve been waiting months for you to tell me.”
Months. Yakov’s known that Victor has been retiring for months. Victor shuts his eyes. Of course Yakov has known for months. Victor has been stressing himself out about retiring and not-coaching, wondering what Yakov would say.
Yuuri had been right. Of course Yuuri had been right.
Victor exhales. “Um. She’s, um, just a baby-shaped blob. Did you want to see?”
Yakov just shakes his head. “The boy asks if I want to see my goddaughter. He asks, and he waits for an answer as if there could be any doubt. Hand it over.”
Victor pulls out his phone, finds the photo, and slides it over.
There’s a long pause as Yakov peers at the screen.
She’s just a baby-shaped blob, but she is a perfect baby-shaped blob. This is an objective fact—Victor is sure that if the ISU ever came out with baby criteria, his child would score an unbeatable world record. Yakov stares at the grainy ultrasound. For a few minutes, he doesn’t say anything. Then, very slowly, he wipes at the corner of his eye.
“Whose is it?”
He and Yuuri decided on the answer to that question—the one that they’ll give to the rest of the world—months ago. They’ll tell their daughter the truth when she learns enough of biology to ask the question. But for now, it’s simple.
“Ours,” Victor says. “She’s all of ours.”
#
…twenty-five gold medals later…
It’s not the first time that Yakov has come to visit the Katsuki-Nikiforov skating complex in Hasetsu, but now that both Yuuri and Yurio have retired, this time he comes with five suitcases and a one-way ticket.
Yuuri is busy with the afternoon students, and Kasumi is still clingy enough that an outing to the Fukuoka airport for either of them was out of the question. Instead, Hiroko-san went out to Fukuoka to fetch Yakov. On the way home, they no doubt exchanged photos, stories, and complaints about their respective skaters.
Hiroko-san escorts Yakov into the house with a smile, and Yakov actually remembers to take his shoes off this time around.
Victor hugs his old coach as best as he can with Kasumi in a sling around his neck. She’s a warm, comforting weight. Mariko, at age six, is old enough to remember him and to greet her godfather with a shy wave.
They have tea. Mariko helps Hiroko serve little sandwiches.
“I helped make these for you, Yakov-coach,” Mariko volunteers. Then she clams up.
Victor’s eldest daughter is a little shy until she gets going (in that regard, she takes after Yuuri), and a lot stubborn (another trait that comes from her otousan’s side of things).
It doesn’t matter what language Yakov uses. She answers Yakov’s questions in monosyllables.
Until he asks that question. The question, the one Victor has known is coming.
“How’s the skating going?” Yakov asks with a broad grin on his face. “When are you going to be the next junior world figure skating champion?”
Mariko glances at Victor. At this remark, her eyebrows come together in a determined line. Her mouth doesn’t move.
Victor has a good idea what she’s thinking.
“Papa,” she’d asked four months ago, when she’d dropped her not-so-little bomb. “Will you still love me?”
“Yes,” he’d said, without even having to think about it. “Yes, always, no matter what. I will always love you.”
“Even if—”
“Especially if,” Victor said. “You’re Mariko. We want Mariko to be Mariko, not anyone else. I promise.”
Now, Mariko looks over at Yakov and pulls a dour face.
“It’s okay,” Victor says. “You can tell Yakov.”
“Tell me what?”
“Can’t.” Mariko shakes her head. “It’s not respectful to say it. Otousan says I have to be respectful of Yakov-coach.”
Yakov practically melts into a puddle at this. “You were an excellent skater last time I was here, and I’ve seen the videos since. It’s okay to have pride in your abilities. Just say it. Who’s going to be the next junior world champion?”
Mariko’s mouth tilts down. Slowly, she holds out her arm and points directly at Victor’s chest. “It’s going to be Kasumi.”
Yakov sits back in his chair. He blinks. He glances at Mariko.
“Well,” he finally says. “She certainly doesn’t get her arrogance from you, Victor.”
Victor thinks it wise not to say anything in response.
“Um,” Hiroko says beside them. “Actually…”
Yakov bends down beside her. His knees pop; a sour expression crosses his face. “Masha, I believe in you. I know you have what it takes to succeed at anything you want.”
“I know that,” Mariko says impatiently. Her shyness is a feint; her stubbornness is the heart of her. “That’s why I’m going to be the best forward on Japan’s National Football team.”
Yakov chokes. “You’re going to be what?”
“I’m not going to be a professional skater,” Mariko explains. “I’m going to be a footballer. Skating is no fun. Plus, you can’t kick anyone, not even on accident!”
Yakov stares at her as if she’s turned into a tarantula.
“Skating is boring,” Mariko continues, “and you’re all by yourself all the time, and what kind of sport only lasts four minutes long? Did you know—” She’s warming to her subject by now “—did you know that people say my otousan has great stamina for skating? Four minutes! Do you know how long football matches last by comparison?”
Yakov exhales. “Football. The girl is six years old, and she’s decided to become a footballer. Where on earth did this come from?”
At his side, Hiroko just smiles.
“Hiroko-san,” Yakov says, turning to her. “did you know your granddaughter doesn’t want to skate? She wants to play football. And you just let her do that? You promised to look after my girls for me.”
“Oh,” Hiroko says, “I did promise that, didn’t I? How interesting.”
“Football!” Yakov continues, not really listening. “Where did she learn about football of all things?”
Hiroko just smiles. “Children get the strangest ideas, don’t they? Who even knows where they come from.”
#
…twenty-five years later…
“It was easy for you and otousan.” Kasumi is curled up on the edge of the couch, examining her toes. Two nails are blackened from jump practice. “You had the onsen. You had each other. You were the perfect coach/choreographer team. You two went from being the most decorated skaters in all of history to becoming the most sought-after coaches in history. Me…?”
Katya has Yuuri’s (technically, Mari’s, but whatever) hair and Yuuri’s eyes. Such is the biological inevitability of dominant traits. Sometimes people thinks she takes after Yuuri more than Victor because at first blush, she sort of looks like him. But she has Victor’s eyebrows, his nose. God help her, the poor girl, she has Victor’s forehead.
Mariko is quiet and stubborn. Her stubbornness has seen her through seven seasons of professional football. Her tenacity brought the first Katsuki-Nikiforova gold medal from a Summer Olympics.
By contrast, Katya likes to make people laugh. She doesn’t let her feelings show easily. She performs for the crowd, all smiles on the outside. When she worries, she rarely lets it show. The fact that his daughter trusts Victor enough to let him in when she’s upset is worth more to him than all the medals in his display case.
“It was easy for you two,” Katya repeats, with no apparent knowledge of the actual truth. “Here I am, about to skate in my fourth Grand Prix Final. I’ll probably get another gold. Maybe I’ll keep this up for a few more years. Then what? I win, then I stop being able to win, and I spend the rest of my life wishing I could go back?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Victor finally says. “Everyone always used to tell me I was living the best part of my life. They said that in Juniors. They said it the year of my senior debut. They said it after I won Olympic gold. They always lied. It’s gotten better every year, every decade.”
“But that’s you. You had otousan.”
Victor shrugs. “What can I say? Get drunk at the next banquet and look for the girl on the pole.”
“Papa. That’s not remotely helpful.”
He kisses her forehead. “It worked for me, Katen’ka. And you’re better than I am, so… I believe you’ll figure it out. You’re going to be fantastic all your life.”
She curls into a smaller ball. “How do you always believe in me?”
It takes Victor a while to answer. Genetics are a mixed bag. The flexibility and stamina his daughters have inherited were surely bonuses. The anxiety and depression? Not so much.
“That’s what families do,” he finally says. “We believe in each other when you can’t believe in yourself. We tell you that you deserve the very best because sometimes, you won’t remember it. And we do it over and over and over again, because you should never forget.”
Kasumi lets out a long breath. She doesn’t say anything in response.
“You’ll figure it out, Katya,” Victor tells her. “I know it doesn’t feel like it to you, but you will.”
She snuggles into his side, and Victor holds her. His heart is very, very full.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says, “because you’re wonderful, and perfect, and we will always love you. Just watch.”
#
It’s the end of an era.
No, it’s not just because the ISU announced that after years of protests, they’re finally lifting their stupid gender-restrictions on ice-dancing pairs.
Victor has seen enough eras go by that he no longer wonders what’s coming next. He knows that whatever it is will work itself out.
Still, it seems utterly appropriate that this year’s Grand Prix Final has finally come back to Sochi… and that Kasumi Katsuki-Nikiforova won gold yesterday with a world-record breaking program. She was the first woman to ever land a quadruple axel in competition. She’s not the first one of his and Yuuri’s students to take first in a major international competition, and she won’t be the last.
Still, somehow, having his daughter win thirty years after he and Yuuri met, on the same ice…
It’s special.
He’s thinking of this as he’s tying his tie in the mirror.
“Almost ready?”
Victor looks behind him and smiles. Yuuri—Katya’s official coach, as compared to her mere choreographer—is here. He’s one of the most revered coaches in all of figure skating history. His hair has just a hint of salt-and-pepper—something that’s completely unfair, Victor is sure, given that he’s only a few years younger than Victor himself. Yuuri is more solid than the last time they were in Sochi together, but the extra weight just makes him curvy and more adorable. So do the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth.
Victor has never stopped falling more in love with his husband.
Still, it’s not the sight of his husband that makes him gasp. It’s the scrap of blue fabric in his hands.
“Yuuri.” Victor takes a step forward. “You told me that you burned that. You told me that decades ago.”
Yuuri looks down. He raises one eyebrow. “Maybe I implied it. Or maybe you assumed.” There’s a touch of amusement in his voice. “I didn’t actually say. I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to bring it around again.”
“You kept that deplorable tie twenty-seven years after our wedding just to taunt me with it now?”
Yuuri considers this. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. That’s exactly what I did. Come on, Victor. We have our Sochi Grand Prix Final Banquet back again, and I’ve, um, arranged for…things. Aren’t you coming down?”
“Things?” Victor looks at his husband. “What kind of things?”
Yuuri winks.
“Oh, good.” Victor grins. “Those kinds of things. Kasumi is going to be so embarrassed.”
Yuuri nods. “I consider that to be an absolute bonus.”
#
Kasumi takes one look at the champagne glass in her otousan’s hand—his third—and another look at the pole in the corner of the banquet hall. She glares at Victor as if to say that this is all his fault.
“Oh, no,” she says. “Oh, hell no.”
She frantically calls Mariko, who came with her to Sochi to cheer her on, and her sister responds with frightening speed. The handful of ISU officials in the room have have never been able to keep Yuuri and Victor in line. But the two women manage this situation with practiced ease. Yuuri is reprimanded and pulled from the room. Victor is practically frog-marched down the hall to his hotel room by his daughters. Both of them are hurled inside. The door shuts. The screech of hotel furniture sounds in the hall.
They’re barricaded in.
“And stay there,” he hears Mariko say. “God, they’re the worst. This is almost as bad as last year’s World Cup. At least there were no cameras, right?”
Their daughters’ footsteps fade down the hall.
“Well.” Victor glances at the door. “That didn’t exactly turn out as we expected. Now what?”
Yuuri just takes a step toward him. “It didn’t turn out as you expected,” he says with a grin. “But… Here we are. In Sochi. And instead of having to babysit our offspring at the damned banquet, we have the perfect excuse to take the evening to ourselves.”
“Oh.” Victor smiles. “That’s brilliant? Was that your plan?”
“Nope,” Yuuri replies, “but let’s pretend it was. Hey, Victor. What’s a nice choreographer like you doing in a place like this?”
Victor takes a step forward. He sets his hand on Yuuri’s cheek, running his fingers down his beloved’s jaw.
“You,” Victor replies softly. “I’m doing you.”
#
Kasumi Katsuki-Nikiforova makes her way back to the banquet hall after hugging her sister in thanks.
She is fairly certain that her fathers are the best—and the worst—fathers in all of skating history. Mariko had the right idea, going into football. She’s not saddled with supportive, brilliant, funny coaches who are just a little bit too affectionate with each other in public most of the time—and utterly impossible when either of them drinks.
As she returns to the banquet hall, she isn’t really thinking about the Grand Prix event that just passed, or her future, or skating. She’s not even thinking about the banquet. She’s thinking about her parents and how stupidly perfect their lives are, and how she’ll never measure up. She’s thinking about how everyone in her family seems to be born to make history…except her.
She’s the second child, the dutiful child. She was the one who always made her godfather smile. The one who listened to her fathers and never pushed the boundaries. When they told her not to try quads just yet, she didn’t. When Papa said she should downgrade her jumps and try for a perfect PCS, she did.
She skates perfectly, but deep down, she knows she’s missing that special spark. Sure, she holds the world record for both free skates and short programs, but that’s hardly original in her family. She’s a dime-a-dozen top skater. She was the last person in her immediate family to win an Olympic gold, and even then, it was close. She’s okay, but when she can’t skate anymore, what will she do? Who will she be?
Kasumi doesn’t let any of these worries show.
She smiles at the other skaters. She holds conversations without really noticing what she’s saying—she’s good at that—but when someone asks her what she’s planning on doing next season, the smile slips off her face and she can’t quite come up with an answer.
She’s so deep in thought that she doesn’t notice the moment when the music shifts from Tchaikovsky to something modern, something with a restless beat.
She looks up from contemplation to see that a crowd has formed on the other side of the room, everyone gathered around the pole that her father had somehow managed to get into this room.
Honestly, otousan. A pole. He was in his fifties. What the hell was he thinking?
But it’s not her otousan on the pole, thank God. It’s a slim woman in a red cocktail dress is ascending it. Her hair is black and cut short enough to show ears that are almost elfin. Her skin gleams brown in the light of the chandeliers. Her thighs are perfectly muscled. They tense around the pole; her skirt slides up until it’s almost indecent.
Indecent or not, Kasumi can’t look away. She finds herself drifting closer. The woman twirls on the pole, and Kasumi’s breath catches. There’s something about the play of light on the rich brown of her skin that makes Kasumi want to look and keep looking. There’s something about those gentle, muscled curves that utterly demands Kasumi’s attention. The graceful arch of the other woman’s back, the tilt of her head, the enticing brown-and-gold of her eyes… There’s a little glitter on her cheeks, and Kasumi wants to make her way through the crowd and brush her fingers against it. She wants to know if it’s makeup, or if the other woman is just naturally sparkling.
The woman looks familiar, and Kasumi isn’t sure why.
“Who is that?” She asks someone at the edge of the crowd. It’s Lisa Livotti, the silver medalist.
Lisa rolls her eyes. “That’s Pensri,” she says. “Pensri Songprawati? Honestly, Kasumi. She was one of the women’s Grand Prix finalists this year. How do you not know this? There’s only six of us. She came in last, but she still made it.”
Oh.
Pensri’s bare toe points. She pivots on the pole, catches sight of Kasumi, and lets out a little gasp.
“Kasumi!” she calls out as if she’s an old friend.
Kasumi is certain—well, almost certain—that they’ve never met. But Pensri twirls down the pole, graceful as rain falling from the sky, landing on her feet to applause from the onlookers.
“Kasumi Katsuki-Nikiforova!” She grins. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh?” Kasumi’s throat dries. She has the feeling that she’s been looking for Pensri, too. She just didn’t realize it, not until now.
Pensri takes a step forward. She takes hold of Kasumi’s hands. “You heard the news, right? The ISU got rid of the gender restrictions in pair figure skating for next year.”
Kasumi swallows. Shit, oh shit, the woman is touching her. Her hands are so warm, and her lips look so soft, and…
Pensri throws her arms around her. “Kasumi,” she says, “be my partner next year!”